Illusion of Life
by misscam
Summary: A life given to the wrong cause. A death for all the wrong reasons. When Warrick is shot and nearly killed, the case gets personal for the CSIs. GSR and sprinkles of CWR.
1. Chapter One

Illusion of Life  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Spoilers: Season one and two references sprinkled around here and there  
  
Disclaimer: *looks sad* If they were mine, I'd wuv them forever and ever and ever and… What? Oh right, reality. CSI is Alliance and CSB's. Them rich. Me not rich. But one day…  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Chapter One  
  
It was a cold night.  
  
The winds howled slightly, rushing through the leaves and stroking the houses, all-seeing like the sky. The moon had been eaten by a dark cloud, most stars seemed pale and sickly. The lights of Las Vegas never died, though. Day or night, wind or silence, winter or summer, they sparkled.   
  
Cars hissed and spewed, reflecting the lights as they drove past, adding to the glitz with their own lights. Las Vegas. City of lights.  
  
But darkness still loomed; overhead and at the edges; in the heart and in the minds. Darkness in the light. Light in the darkness.  
  
Gunshots in the silence.  
  
The wind screamed. It was almost as if it took on the voices of the dead, carrying them to all who would listen. Voices of the dead, demanding justice. Demanding remembrance.   
  
The voices of the dead never died.   
  
Nick heard them, and sometimes he thought he could hear Kristy's among them and he wondered why she had not forgiven him.  
  
Catherine heard them, but merely closed her eyes and thought of Lindsey. The dead were dead, the living still lived and she could still guard them.  
  
Warrick heard them as he drove, and wondered if Holly Gibbs would ever stop screaming in his ears and if her face would ever leave his nightmares.   
  
Sara heard them as she tossed in her bed, unable to sleep. Always she listened, always she promised justice, even when she knew she could not always grant it.   
  
And Grissom heard them and knew why the wind carried such voices. They came because the living listened, craving forgiveness for living on. But it was not from the dead the living craved forgiveness.   
  
Always it was from themselves.   
  
He knew, and yet he heard the voices still. Sometimes he wondered if they would ever be silenced.   
  
The phone rang. He rolled over to reach for it, knowing at this hour it could only mean one thing.   
  
"Grissom."  
  
"Griss…"  
  
And he knew something was wrong even before she said it.   
  
The winds howled on. The cars kept driving, the lights kept sparkling. Life didn't stop, time didn't pause.   
  
And somewhere in the dark Warrick Brown was fighting for his life.  
  
*****  
  
Night gave into morning, but the clouds lingered, grey against blue. The stars became invisible once more, while the sun took over reign of the sky. Another day in Vegas, another dead.  
  
There was always another dead.  
  
Yet this time, Grissom could barely keep his eyes on the road and his heart from leaping painfully with each breath. Warrick….  
  
It was Sara who waited for him, her face a mirror of pain. The yellow tape seemed to droop as he crossed under it, as if that too hung its head.  
  
"Griss…" she said helplessly. He reached for her without even thinking, wrapping her in a tight embrace. If it was for his sake or hers, he did not know, but they clung to each other for a small eternity.  
  
"Catherine went with the ambulance," she finally said, stepping away. "He had blood on his clothes, she's gonna… They don't know if he'll… He'll…"  
  
Her voice died away, and she bit her lip. He tried to comfort her with his glance, knowing it wasn't much.   
  
"Hey, boss."  
  
Nick sounded grim as he walked over, camera dangling against his thigh. "I found some tyre tracks by the victim. Looks like a car pulled over and gunned him down. Warrick…"  
  
He gulped, eyes glassy. "Was across the street. Innocent bystander…"  
  
"All right." Grissom managed to keep his voice even. "We work this case like we would work any other case."  
  
"We, Gil?" a voice said behind him, causing both Sara and Nick to narrow their eyes. Ecklie. Grissom didn't even have to turn around to know.   
  
"We, Conrad," he answered firmly.   
  
"We'll go… Work the case," Sara said hurriedly, striding off with Nick in close pursuit. Grissom watched them go, then turned to face Conrad Ecklie.  
  
"This is our shift."  
  
"And one of your team was involved. Wouldn't you feel better if my team took this one?" Ecklie smiled in what was probably meant to be a overbearing way. Grissom would feel his fists ball against his will.  
  
"Actually, I would feel a lot worse if your team took this one on, Conrad. Our shift. Our case. My team. Stay out of it."  
  
"The Sheriff won't be happy."  
  
"The Sheriff is never happy. Now excuse me…"  
  
He managed to get a few feet away before he let out something much like a hiss or perhaps it was a sigh. The flashing police lights seemed to beat in his blood all through his body. Like heartbeats. Echoes of Warrick's heartbeats.   
  
He stared ahead, trying to calm his breathing and his heart. Evidence. They were here to gather evidence so whoever did this could be caught. Justice. Evidence.   
  
The phone ripped into his consciousness with a shrill ring, and he fumbled for a few moments until he managed to get a grip on it.  
  
"Grissom."  
  
"It's Catherine…" Her voice sounded terrible, torn between anger and despair. "He's in surgery."  
  
Surgery. Surgery was hope. Surgery was not dead yet. He allowed himself to exhale for a moment, staring ahead at the nearby rooftops and their optimistic tilt upwards, reaching for the sky and the sun.  
  
"They think he'll make it if he survives the surgery. The doctors are optimistic."   
  
"Thanks, Cath. Let me know the minute you hear something."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
And then her voice was gone into oblivion with a soft click. He stared at the phone for a moment before slipping it back into his pocket, wondering if what he felt was hope or relief or fear. They all seemed so tangled together it was impossible to tell.   
  
Sara was hunched down by the gutter drain, staring intently at the edges.   
  
"Warrick's in surgery. They think he'll make it," he told her, loud enough so that nearby Nick looked up and flashed something that could have been a smile had there not been so much anger and fear in it. They thought he'd make it. Thinking was not knowing. Not knowing was no peace of mind.   
  
Sara let out a barely audible breath, but didn't look up. After a moment, Grissom bent down next to her, trying not to trip over her feet.   
  
"I think the gun was tossed down here," she muttered. "See these scratches? Something metal made those, and recently."  
  
"Hmmm," he acknowledged. "Only one way to find out."  
  
She just nodded, eyes still on the drain. But he could see the tension in her body and something dark in her face. One of them. She had been on the sidelines when Holly died, now she felt the full force.   
  
One of them, trapped somewhere between life and death.   
  
He got up, finally daring to look across the street to where tape marked where Warrick had been shot. The red blood seemed to glimmer as the sun smiled at it. Basking in blood.   
  
He tried to push the thought away. It was just evidence. Just evidence.  
  
Except the blood was Warrick's.   
  
Breathe. The key was to breathe and keep on doing the job. Gathering evidence. Taking blood samples, examining tyre impression, looking for fibres. Analysing the scene, gathering the evidence, finding the killer. Or killers. That was the job. He'd done it on hundreds of crime scenes.   
  
But this one had Warrick's blood.   
  
"Hey," Brass said, coming up behind. The detective looked grim as well, noticing his glance. "It never gets easier when it's one of your own."  
  
"No, it doesn't," Grissom agreed. His stomach knotted, tensing with the rest of his body. "Any witnesses?"  
  
"No. Nothing. Looks like it will be up to the evidence to crack this one."  
  
"Jim, it's always up to the evidence."  
  
Brass sent him a look with just a slight hint of exasperation buried along the lines of worry.  
  
"How is he?"  
  
"Still in surgery."  
  
"I'm sorry, Gil."  
  
"ID'd the body yet?"  
  
Brass shook his head. "Looks like a local kid. What was Warrick doing in this neighbourhood?"  
  
"Taking a drive," Grissom said slowly, leaning down. "Nick, get a shot of this!"   
  
"You think it's from Warrick's car?"  
  
"We'll know soon enough," Grissom replied as Nick came, wincing at the sight of all the blood. He held up the camera like a shield, the blitz flashing over the asphalt. Over the blood. Over the evidence.   
  
It was just evidence.   
  
So why did the blood beat so loudly in his ears?  
  
One of them.   
  



	2. Chapter Two

Illusion of Life  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Spoilers: Season one and two references sprinkled around here and there  
  
Disclaimer: *looks sad* If they were mine, I'd wuv them forever and ever and ever and… What? Oh right, reality. CSI is Alliance and CSB's. Them rich. Me not rich. But one day…  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Chapter Two  
  
The clouds sailed lazily across the sky, slowly being swallowed by the horizon. The sky breathed a quiet wind, as if the rage had gone to sleep with the night. It was a beautiful day, in the distant heat rose from the desert dunes, making the rest of the world seem hazed.   
  
Even the floors felt hot, heat oozing up from it, leaking into the skin and the blood. Hot blood. Hot air. Hot tempers.  
  
Sara could hear Grissom's voice long before she entered his office. It bounced through the hallways, echoing the loud heartbeats in everyone's ears. He wasn't happy.  
  
She leaned against the doorframe as she reached his office, merely looking for a moment. The calmness that usually surrounded him was gone, instead an air of determination and steel had set upon him. They had nearly lost Warrick, hell, they could still lose Warrick. The concept was too painful to consider and too real to ignore.   
  
Grissom dealt with it his way, she just wasn't sure quite what his way was.   
  
"No, my shift is handling this one!" he snapped into the phone, then slammed it down hard.   
  
"Ecklie?"  
  
He looked up, gave a shrug that could probably mean yes and then stared down at the notes at his desk again.  
  
"The gun I found in the sewer…" she tried not to wrinkle her nose at the memory. "Calibre matches the coroner's report on our dead John Doe. The shell casings match too."  
  
He nodded, perhaps he had already heard.   
  
"We found some shoe prints," she went on, speaking mostly just to fill the silence with something. Sometimes she wondered how he could wrap himself in silence so much. It was almost as if he could live in it and not mind, as if sounds were a privilege and an annoyance, not a given.   
  
"Anything new from Catherine?"  
  
"No."  
  
It sounded almost like a dismissal, but she didn't leave, and after a while he looked up.   
  
"I'm heading for the hospital soon," he said and this time, she detected the undercurrent of pain in his voice. Warrick was his favourite CSI. Even as she felt a twinge of jealousy, she wanted to hold his hand and tell him everything would be all right.   
  
He looked at her with something near softness in his face, something almost vulnerable. His eyes glimmered as they met hers, she tried to blink back tears. How dared he tell her she needed a life and then look at her this way?   
  
How long they looked at each other, she didn't know. It felt like a small eternity until he finally broke the gaze and got up.   
  
"Keep me posted."  
  
"Yeah," she agreed. "Greg is looking at some fibres we found. I'll go…"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Why did the air feel so charged? Grief or fear or just raw emotion? Whatever it was, her skin tickled as Grissom walked past her, his hand brushing against hers for a millisecond.   
  
She looked after him as he left and wondered what she'd ever do if his life would hang from a thin thread. It scared her that she couldn't even consider it. She couldn't consider losing Warrick either, the thought alone made her heart pause and her breath catch painfully in her throat. He had to live. And Grissom had to live.  
  
Her life would feel dead without them.  
  
*****  
  
Somewhere between sleep and awake, Catherine tried not to think, not to feel, not to dream, just breathe and stay awake. Dreams would bring blood. Thoughts would bring blood. So she just sat in the hard chair and stared ahead.   
  
She could feel her heartbeats echo her breathing. Two heartbeats, one breath. Two heartbeats, one breath. The rhythm had no feelings, it just was. Like life.   
  
"Catherine Willows?"  
  
She looked up to meet the blue eyes of one of the doctors, his face eased and exhausted. So Warrick lived. No mask of sympathy, no hesitation or tension. Warrick lived.  
  
"Your friend is a very lucky man. We managed to extract both bullets with minimal blood loss. We had remove some of his spleen, but he will live."  
  
"Thank God," she breathed. "Can I…?"  
  
"He's in intensive care. We usually…"  
  
She held up her ID and felt a strange sense of stepping outside herself. She needed to collect evidence. This was one case they had to solve.   
  
"I'm with the Crime Lab. I have to look at him and whatever clothing he was wearing. I'm also gonna need those bullets. They're evidence."  
  
The doctor hesitated, then sighed. "All right. Follow me."  
  
Her steps seemed unusually loud as she walked down the white halls, as if everything else was muffled and that was all she could focus on.   
  
She heard the machines before she saw him. Monitoring his heartbeats, helping him breathe. Telling her he was still alive.   
  
His eyes were closed and his face was free of concern. It was almost as if he slept the most peaceful sleep. She didn't reach for him. She just stood and took in the sight of his rising and falling chest, his outstretched hand, his dark eyelids.   
  
"Hey, Warrick," she said softly.   
  
The doctor walked out, leaving her with the loud machines and the silent form of Warrick. She resisted the urge to reach for his hand without gloves – there could be evidence she needed to preserve.   
  
"He looks peaceful."  
  
She nearly jumped out of her skin. "Jesus, Grissom."  
  
"Sorry." He eased his field kit down on the floor and approached the bed carefully. His face looked blank, but only by effort. She could see lines of tension on his forehead that would be heard to ease away.   
  
"He has something under his fingernails," he observed.   
  
He reached for his kit, but she halted him with a hand on his arm.  
  
"Grissom…. I'm doing this."  
  
"Catherine…"  
  
"I'm doing this," she said again and carefully slipped on some gloves. She could feel his disapproval on her back, not for the first time and probably not for the last. He had his ways, she had hers.   
  
"Cath… How…. Um… Close are you and Warrick?"  
  
She turned to stare at him. "Do I ask you if you and Sara make out in the broom closet?"  
  
Her question threw him off balance; she could see a brief flash of something almost boyish on his face. Insecurity, perhaps.   
  
"This is personal for all of us, Grissom. I'm doing this," she added in a softer voice as he struggled to reply.   
  
He finally nodded, though she could tell he wasn't happy. "All right. I'll be at the lab. We're trying to identify the second victim."  
  
Second victim. Warrick was a victim. The very word hurt to think about, as if acknowledging it made it worse. Victim. A simple word, but so much emotion.   
  
"Let me know," she replied as calmly as she could.  
  
"Yeah." He turned in the doorway as he began to walk out, giving her a quizzical look. "The broom closet?"  
  
"It's very romantic," she assured him. He opened his mouth, then just shook his head and walked out.   
  
"He's probably gonna move his roaches in there now to see if they'll mate faster," she told Warrick, smiling slightly. His heart monitor beeped in encouragement, or at least she chose to interpret it that way.  
  
She reached for his hand. It felt warm in hers even through the gloves. Warm and alive.   
  
And all tension died away, leaving only happiness. It wouldn't last long. Anger would come in and fuel her, determination would drive them all for a long time, but for a brief moment, she merely felt happy.  
  
One life not dead.   
  



	3. Chapter Three

Illusion of Life  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Spoilers: Season one and two references sprinkled around here and there  
  
Disclaimer: *looks sad* If they were mine, I'd wuv them forever and ever and ever and… What? Oh right, reality. CSI is Alliance and CSB's. Them rich. Me not rich. But one day…  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Chapter Three   
  
He dreamt.  
  
There was pain in the dream, washing through him, slamming into in, brushing against him. Little pain, great pain, dying pain. Numbness took over and he merely floated, feeling nothing. But that too, was a kind of pain. Nothing was absence, longing.   
  
Sometimes, he thought he heard echoes of sounds that did not quite reach him. Sometimes, he thought he felt touches of familiar skin against his. Or perhaps it was merely the dream, confusing, alluring, vivid.   
  
For a while he didn't feel his heartbeats and he wondered if the dream was death. But slowly, the beating returned, steady and painful. Pain was life, so he floated in it, clinging to it like a lifeline. An ocean to drown in. But it was life, and not death. Life was pain and yet he wanted it.  
  
The dream unravelled, the ocean of pain becoming nothing. He gasped as he fell and fell and darkness became light.  
  
The light forced itself past his eyelids, into his mind, chasing the last strands of the dream away. Brightly white. Voices surrounded him, all foreign. The said his name and asked him to wriggle his fingers. When he finally did, they left.   
  
He rested in the light for a while, soft and warm as it was. Gradually, he could make out cracks in the white ceiling and shadows playing across his face.  
  
"Hey, Warrick."  
  
Catherine. Recognition flooded into him and he was grateful for something to cling onto. He knew her. He had held her, had smiled at her, had watched autopsies with her. Catherine. Beautiful, passionate Catherine.   
  
Her face came into view, her hair falling around her face like a frame of light. She smiled and he wondered if he dreamt still. He tried to return the smile, but it hurt and he winced instead.  
  
Immediately her soft hands were on his face, easing the pain away. It looked as if she needed to reassure herself he was truly there and that finally convinced him it was not a dream. She wouldn't need reassurance if she was a dream.  
  
His heartbeats sounded metallic. For a moment he thought there was something wrong with his ears, then his eyes fell on the monitors by his bed. A hospital, he realised. Whiteness and machines. It figured.   
  
What had happened?  
  
He tried to lift his head, but Catherine restrained him with a gentle hand on his cheek.   
  
"Easy, Warrick. You were shot twice."  
  
The memories came at him, much like the punk white boys had, firing while laughing. The pain had been unbearable, hot and pointed, burrowing into his stomach. He had fallen, the asphalt had almost felt cool against his cheek. The blood had pooled by his hands, it had seemed strangely bright in the dark night.  
  
They had laughed and he had thought they would shoot him again, finish it. They had finished the other kid instead, all the while laughing. But the laughter had sounded desperate, forced. So young. The laughter had sounded so young.   
  
And then they had taken his car and he had been alone. Unconsciousness had been a blessing, darkness with no emotions. He had thought he was dying. No tunnel, no bright light. Just darkness.  
  
And then…  
  
Catherine smiled again, but there was sadness in her smile. She brushed a finger over his lips and whispered something he couldn't hear. It sounded like a caress, but he wasn't sure. He strained to hear, strained to move, but his body did not listen to his pleas. It hurt, it wanted to rest.   
  
The lights dimmed and suddenly she was gone. It took him a moment to realise he had fallen asleep and she had left. Her scent still lingered, so she had not been a dream.   
  
For a while he merely stared at the ceiling, trying to connect with all parts of his body. It felt unresponsive. Drugs, probably. That didn't bode well for when he would get reacquainted with his body again.   
  
"Hey."  
  
He managed to turn his head towards the door, and saw Nick, Grissom and Sara, all looking tired and strained. Nick looked grim, Sara looked angry and Grissom… Grissom looked intense. Concentrated.   
  
"Hey," he managed to croak out. They tried to smile, but it only made them look more tired. He wondered how much overtime they were working. He wouldn't have been able to sleep had any of them been hurt, much like Hollys death sometimes still woke him late at night.   
  
"Cath… Catherine?" he asked. His throat felt sore, and he was thankful when Sara helped him gulp down some water.  
  
"She had to pick up Lindsey," Grissom replied.   
  
Warrick nodded, closing his eyes for a moment to gather strength. His body was beginning to feel weighed down and an another attack of drowsiness left him feeling deadly tired.   
  
"They took my car," he complained to Nick as lightly as he could. It was easier to stay awake with sounds surrounding him.   
  
"You drive a wreck, buddy. You should be thankful," Nick joked, but it didn't take the grimness away from his face.   
  
"At least his is better than yours," Sara countered lightly. Grissom looked at her strangely for a moment, a cross between love and sadness playing across his features. Then the look disappeared, and Warrick wondered if he had imagined it. He sometimes wondered that about all the looks between Sara and Grissom. Sometimes so obvious, sometimes just friendly, sometimes so intense he'd feel a desire to leave the room to give them privacy, sometimes…  
  
The thought died away. He tried to cling to it rather than what he knew was to come but he couldn't. The thought of his attack forced itself in, pushing away all other thoughts. He couldn't hide it, couldn't chase it away. He had to face it.   
  
"The guys who attacked me…" He paused, trying to remember. They seemed so faceless in his memories, their laughter the only solid thing about them. Wisps of clouds.   
  
"Caucasian. Three guys, I think."  
  
"Warrick… You don't have to do this now," Grissom sad gently. "We have plenty of forensic evidence, we'll find them."  
  
"Yeah, we found the gun," Sara jumped in with. "Ballistics have matched the bullets to both shootings. When we find them, we'll nail them. Fingerprints came up unknown, but when we find the shooter, he can't wriggle free."  
  
If she sounded so sure to convince herself or him, Warrick wasn't sure.   
  
There was a slight awkward silence, Grissom looking like he wanted to say something, but had no idea what. They all looked uncomfortable, as if faced with life they just felt at a loss for what to feel. They knew death well enough.   
  
"Rest easy, buddy," Nick finally muttered. The three begun to shuffle out, when a bright flash of memory swept through Warrick, leaving him breathless.  
  
"One of the guys…"  
  
They all turned.  
  
Just like the three guys had. The three laughing, faceless guys, gunning down a poor defenceless boy. One of them had worn a tank tope. White, like the guy's skin. White and a black tattoo. An echo of the past.  
  
"He had a tattoo. A swastika."  
  
An echo of the past, black against the white skin. A swastika. It had looked so unreal, so out of place in the 21st century.   
  
Grissom betrayed no emotions. Sara looked horrified for a moment, Nick angry. They both looked at Grissom, as if the older man would tell them how to react.   
  
"Rest, Warrick," Grissom simply said, nothing in his voice betraying any kind of surprise at the revelation. He and Sara walked out, Nick lingering behind for a moment.  
  
"Take care, man."  
  
Nick nodded, and then Warrick was alone with his metallic heartbeats once more. The dream pulled at him gently. He resisted as long as he could, but he had no strength left.  
  
Darkness fell.   
  



	4. Chapter Four

Illusion of Life  
  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Spoilers: Season one and two references sprinkled around here and there  
  
Disclaimer: *looks sad* If they were mine, I'd wuv them forever and ever and ever and. What? Oh right, reality. CSI is Alliance and CSB's. Them rich. Me not rich. But one day.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Chapter Four  
  
All storms had silence in the middle, a calm while the outside was ripped to shreds. Sometimes, Sara thought the CSIs lived in the eye of the storm, stuck in the calm while all around them the dead were mourned and life made less.  
  
Sometimes, she thought it was just an illusion they clung to simply to lessen the impact of each death or it would consume them.  
  
But no illusion could undo the sight of Warrick's blood and the sound of his metallic heartbeats in a white hospital room. One of them.  
  
They had all gathered in the lunch room, waiting for Brass. The evidence had been gathered. They just needed someone to match it to. Fibres, fingerprints, an unregistered gun and a missing car. They would probably get more evidence when they found Warrick's car, hopefully something that could lead them in the right direction. An ID on the John Doe would be a good start. But for now, they just waited.  
  
"Neo-nazis," Nick said disbelievingly. He stared down at his coffee cup, his face echoing the disgusted disbelief Sara felt.  
  
Brass shook his head as he entered. "They're not truly nazis. Just punks looking for an excuse."  
  
"They're killers," Catherine said fiercely. "Any news on the car?"  
  
"Nothing," Brass held out his hands as if to indicate he did indeed have nothing. "It hasn't been spotted. They've probably dumped it somewhere it would take a while to be found."  
  
Grissom looked pensive, Sara noted, doing a slight flick of his tongue. She wondered if he was aware of it or if he had left to head to another plane of existence.  
  
"I do have an ID on our John Doe - James Rodriquez. Aged sixteen," Brass went on, just a hint of something that might once had been sympathy. "Mother lives at 501 Wickham Terrace."  
  
The beeper went off, causing everyone to take a small dive for their own, but it turned out to be Gil's.  
  
"Car found," he announced and everyone tensed. "Nick, process the car scene and get it towed in. Get the location from dispatch. Catherine, you go with Brass."  
  
"Let's go, handsome," Catherine declared, marching out with a mix of energised anger and relief at something like a lead to grab onto. Nick and Brass followed.  
  
"Let's go see what more our good doctor got from the autopsy," Grissom said after a moment, pushing his untouched coffee cup away and getting up. Sara followed him slowly into the hallway, wondering if there was enough coffee in the world to stop her from ever sleeping again. She didn't want to dream of Warrick's blood, so red in the dark night.  
  
"Sixteen." she muttered, mostly to herself. Somewhere in the pit of her stomach she felt a twitch - more anger to fuel, another ghost to put to rest. "It seems so senseless."  
  
"They all do," Grissom replied absentmindedly.  
  
She stared at him, shaking her head slowly as they walked. "But this isn't about money or revenge or even jealousy. Just appearances."  
  
"And hate."  
  
"How can you hate someone just because of the colour of their skin?"  
  
"You have never been attracted to a guy just for his looks?" Grissom asked innocently.  
  
"No. I like my men for their brains," she smiled briefly, amazed that he had managed to lure her into something that was almost flirting, Grissom style. "Feelings should run more than skin deep."  
  
"You're right, they should," he agreed. "But you do have lovely skin."  
  
She halted; Grissom walked on, as if he'd just remarked something about the weather of late and hadn't just thrown her heart into wild gallop.  
  
When Grissom showed no signs of slowing down, she bolted to catch up. He looked distant again, meaning he was probably back to thinking about the case. As it should be. Right. Case.  
  
"I'm not sure Warrick will be pleased having Nick messing up his car," she said lightly.  
  
"Maybe he'll donate it for an experiment." Grissom lit up. "I've always wanted to see how a high velocity car crash impact blood spatter."  
  
She regarded him with a sideway glance, trying to determine if he was serious or not. If he wasn't, he had one of the best poker faces she'd ever seen.  
  
They put on some lab coats in silence. It occurred to her that it could very well had been Warrick's autopsy and a chill went through her. Never. She'd never let that happen.  
  
The coolness of the coroner's greeted her as they stepped into the silence. There was always a strange feeling of silence here, as if the dead were merely sleeping and no one wanted to wake them.  
  
Sometimes, she wondered if the dead did indeed to speak to them in this room. Sometimes, she thought she only wished they did so their deaths wouldn't feel so final.  
  
"Hey, Gil," Dr. Robbins greeted them with, looking grim and tired. "I hear Warrick will pull through."  
  
"Yeah," Sara replied, approaching the body with a sinking heart. God, so young. He shouldn't have died.  
  
"What have we got?" Grissom asked softly. If he felt uncomfortable, he didn't show it.  
  
Sometimes, she hated him for his ability to detach himself so completely. Sometimes, she envied him. And sometimes, she pitied him. But even Grissom felt something, she was sure. Just buried deeper.  
  
"The second gunshot is what killed him," Robbins was saying and she tried to listen. "Right between the eyes. He sustained heavy damage before that. Two fractured ribs, heavy bruising to the abdomen and thighs. Defensive wounds on his hands and arms. I think this boy was kicked and instinctively curled up into a foetus position. That would explain the positioning of his bruises."  
  
He indicated the bruising, Grissom leaning closer to look.  
  
"He definitely got them while he was alive."  
  
"We didn't get shoeprints of the clothing," Sara shot in.  
  
"I don't think they wore shoes. This kind of heavy damage would indicate you're either looking for Superman or someone wearing heavy boots."  
  
"Army boots?" Grissom suggested.  
  
"Could be. They kicked him with the tip, not the whole boot. He suffered a kick to the head here - it broke the skin. The boot would have blood and scalp on it."  
  
"Catherine fond some scalp airs on Warrick's clothing," Grissom observed. "It came from the boot?"  
  
"Probably. Someone also hit this kid with a blunt object in the back. A bat, perhaps a steel pipe or a similar object." Robbins looked up, eyes dark. "Someone went to a lot of trouble to hurt this kid."  
  
"They kicked him, hit him, shot him and killed him," Sara muttered. She felt sick, but forced herself not to flinch. This was work. She could listen to the voices of the dead when it was just her, Sara, and not Sara Sidle of the Las Vegas Crime Lab. This was work.  
  
"Yeah." Even Robbins' voice sounded pale. "I was thinking off stopping by the hospital later to see how our guy is doing."  
  
"A lot better than this one," Grissom said darkly. "Thanks. Page me if you find anything new."  
  
She followed him out, leaning against the wall in the empty hallway. It was quiet, but not quite silence.  
  
"I'll have a look at the victim's clothes again," she muttered.  
  
"I'll help Nick with the car," Grissom replied, but neither moved. She closed her eyes for a moment, when she opened them again she could feel his gaze on her.  
  
"That could have been Warrick," she whispered.  
  
"It isn't. We have a killer to catch and we can't...."  
  
"I know!" she shot back. "We can't let our emotions get in the way. I've heard the speech, Grissom."  
  
"I don't want you to burn out in this job, Sara."  
  
He leaned forward, eyes warm and gentle and caring.  
  
"You die a little each case if you let yourself. You need something other than death in your life."  
  
"Right. Get a life," she muttered, a hint of anger in her voice. "Like you, Grissom? Passing the days is not life. It's just an illusion of life."  
  
He looked hurt for a moment and she instantly wished she hadn't said it.  
  
"I know," he said quietly. She stared at him.  
  
"I know," he repeated, lifting a hand and cupping her cheek. She could hardly breathe, his intense gaze keeping her locked to him. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and she wondered if he would kiss her.  
  
His breath brushed against her cheek, hot and tantalising. His fingers trailed her cheekbones down to her chin, up to her lips, lingering for the briefest moment and then he let his hand fall.  
  
She stared after him as he walked away, her heart pounding wildly. Sometimes, she thought she might never fully understand Grissom. Sometimes, that angered her.  
  
Sometimes, she wondered why he still made her feel more alive than anything else. 


	5. Chapter Five

Illusion of Life  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Spoilers: Season one and two references sprinkled around here and there  
  
Disclaimer: *looks sad* If they were mine, I'd wuv them forever and ever and ever and… What? Oh right, reality. CSI is Alliance and CSB's. Them rich. Me not rich. But one day…  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Chapter Five  
  
"I don't believe this," Nick muttered angrily. The younger man stared at the burnt car with a mix of anger and frustration, eyes gleaming darkly in the half-lit garage.   
  
Grissom understood the sentiment all too well. Warrick's car was a shadow of its former self, burnt nearly to a crisp and only a part of the back remained unscathed. The registration number smirked up at them, the dying grin of a lead going nowhere.   
  
"They torched the car." Nick shook his head. "Damnit!"  
  
"There might be something that fire didn't completely ruin. Take it apart and see what you can find."  
  
"Yeah," Nick agreed. "No wonder it took a while to find the damn car. It's not a car anymore."  
  
"Grissom!"  
  
Sara bolted into the garage like a bolt of lightning, the energy sizzling from her nearly enough to power a house. Her hair had fallen into her face again; he resisted the urge to reach out and tuck it behind her ear.   
  
"I found something on the victim's clothes. You might wanna take a look."   
  
"Let me know if you find anything," he instructed Nick, and followed Sara. She nearly dragged him through the hallways, striding at a speed he could barely keep up with without running.   
  
"We couldn't get any shoeprints good enough for comparison off the clothes, but I went back and looked at the impressions of the shoe tips – some of the substances from the boots transferred to the victim's jacket. Take a look," she declared as she pushed the door open, coming to an abrupt halt by a microscope. Greg hovered nearby but didn't actually approach.   
  
Grissom bent down, trying not to be distracted by Sara leaning in so close she was just a breath away.  
  
"You're looking at sawdust and blue paint!" Greg declared triumphantly a second later. "As well as some good old-fashioned mud."  
  
"Thank you, Greg," Grissom muttered, adjusting the lens. "I would never have guessed."  
  
"There was sawdust on his jacket and on his pants. I think it came from more than one boot," Sara said softly. "Not long before the murders, the killers stepped in sawdust."  
  
"But where?" He looked up, meeting her glance. She seemed aflame with energy over the discovery, as she always did, and the sadness in her eyes was almost impossible to see. Unless you knew where to look. And he had always known, somehow.   
  
He sometimes wondered if she saw through him as easily and the thought both scared him and thrilled him beyond belief. Catherine he knew where he had, a good friend, comfortable and easy to be with.   
  
Sara was different. He felt alive when she smiled at him, frustrated when she pushed him, worried when she didn't. He couldn't figure her out and sometimes, he couldn't even figure himself out when she was near, much less what he actually wanted.   
  
Sometimes it seemed so easy. Sometimes it seemed so damn complicated.   
  
He suddenly realised Greg had been talking, and that they were both staring at him, waiting for a reply. If it was the hearing that had gone for a minute, or if he had simply been too wrapped up in his own thinking was hard to say.  
  
"Hmm," he offered, hoping it would serve.  
  
"Yeah, I don't think a sawmill is likely either," Sara added. "Workshop, maybe?"   
  
"Could be."  
  
She smiled hesitantly; he returned it with as much feeling as his tired mind could muster. He could feel a migraine coming, and his body was crying out for sleep, nearly overwhelming anything else.  
  
One of these days, he was going to sleep for a week, dreamlessly.   
  
Except there was always a case. Always a murder. Always the whispers of the dead and the tears of the living.  
  
*****  
  
There were always tears.  
  
Catherine had seen many get the news of a death of beloved – too many, she sometimes thought in the sleepless nights – and always, the tears were there, cried or uncried. They clung to the air and the skin, drowning all other emotions.   
  
Even murders cried for their victims. Or perhaps they cried for themselves. Long ago, when she had realised the tears never ended, she had made a decision to never linger. To cry her tears and dry them and never look back. Never look back.   
  
It was a kind of life. It wasn't the life Eddie had promised her or the one she had dreamt off when she was young and her life was a future, not a past. But it was life and Lindsey and that was enough.   
  
James Rodriquez was dead, and his mother had no life anymore. Catherine could see it in her eyes – the light was gone, the soul had crumbled. Deanne Rodriquez wouldn't recover from the death of her son, not truly. Too many tears would always linger in the air.   
  
"He can't be dead…"  
  
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Rodriquez," Catherine said again, knowing how futile the words seemed.   
  
"I thought he had just gone to stay with a friend… I didn't…"  
  
"Do you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?" Brass asked. Catherine hated him for asking, even though she'd asked it many times herself.   
  
"No… He was a good kid. A good kid…" Deanne Rodriquez stared ahead, eyes filled with tears that wouldn't fall. "His father died two years ago. James was all I had."  
  
"We'll find who did this," Catherine promised. For James. For Warrick.   
  
"Did he… Suffer?"  
  
"No." The lie was easy, rolling off the tongue. The truth would bring tears; the lie might give some peace in the empty nights to come. At least Catherine hoped it would. It was all they could offer after death – closure and the chance for peace of mind.   
  
"The other man – you said he tried to help my son?" The woman stared at her hands, nails digging into her palms. It looked painful; the skin was white and drained off blood where the nails pressed in.  
  
"Yes, Mrs. Rodriguez."  
  
"I hope he'll be fine." The nails had broken through the skin now, and blood seeped from within onto the skin. Deanne seemed to merely stare at the blood, making no moves to stop the bleeding.  
  
A drop of red, red blood glimmered in the light and fell to the carpet. And then, at last, the tears fell too, and the mother cried helplessly. Catherine eased down next to her, holding the crying woman and whispering words of nothing.   
  
She thought of Lindsey and all the shadows in the dark that could hurt her little girl. She thought of Warrick and all the shadows she intended to chase away from him. He would live, she would see to it. They would all live, damnit, because her life wouldn't be life without them.   
  
Deanne sobbed quietly, her body shaking with the effort to breathe. Brass was looking away, perhaps having seen one too many scenes like it. Slowly, the sobs became gasps, became mere breaths, became silence. A light bulb flickered on and off, about to die, but fighting to live on.   
  
"Thank you," the mother whispered. It was a dismissal and Catherine eased away. Brass expressed condolences and the need to be in touch later and then they were outside in the stifling hot air.   
  
"A good kid." Brass shook his head. "Boy scout, active in the local church, good grades, never been in trouble with the police…"  
  
"Race," she muttered, managing to cram as much spite into the word as she could. "Nothing to do with who he is and everything to do with how he looks. That's why he died."  
  
She looked at the house again, imagining Deanna Rodriguez clutching pictures and treasured possessions inside, discovering that even when you thought there were no tears left, they fell anyway.   
  
"I'm gonna see if we can track down any neo-Nazi groups in the area. Some of the guys working with gangs might have an idea," Brass said. His hand brushed against her arm for a moment, offering brief comfort. She appreciated the thought, but her body longed for someone else's hands to brush against her skin and assure her all would be fine.   
  
She watched him take off, then wandered to her own car. The air hissed around her as she walked, hot and bothersome. Behind her, she heard something that could have been a soft cry of anguish, a cry of a mother's loss of a child.   
  
She didn't look back.   
  



	6. Chapter Six

Illusion of Life  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Spoilers: Season one and two references sprinkled around here and there  
  
Disclaimer: *looks sad* If they were mine, I'd wuv them forever and ever and ever and… What? Oh right, reality. CSI is Alliance and CSB's. Them rich. Me not rich. But one day…  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Chapter Six  
  
"Sara… Would you like to get some breakfast?"  
  
He had walked into the lab, and she had prepared herself for another 'you work too much' speeches (though, if he uttered anything about her deserving a life, she was going to have to kill him), but he had just looked at her for a while with the bluest blue eyes she knew of.   
  
And then he had opened his mouth and asked her if she wanted breakfast. In a warm, almost caressing voice that seemed to sing in her mind.   
  
"Sure," she finally replied. "I'd love to get some food."  
  
"I know a place they have great vegetarian meals," he offered, smiling slightly as she got up.  
  
"Great." She fell into stride next to him, trying to discern what mood he was in. It was hard to tell with Grissom sometimes. He could make comments that came barrelling out of left field to nearly knock her unconscious, but sometimes he could be so far away she wondered if he was even in the same solar system. Grissom, the enigma wrapped in a riddle – but the wrapping was very, very nice.   
  
The sun greeted them as they stepped outside, bright and ready to bring the day. A slight fog had settled in the distance, but would soon be chased away. There was no room for grey in this city of sparkling lights and black darkness.   
  
He took her to a small diner she'd never been to before. It was nearly empty, just one or two early birds (or really late night owls) present. The staff seemed inhumanly cheerful, and it appeared to leak into the air.   
  
Or maybe she just felt that way because Grissom's hand had taken hers on the way in and still hadn't let go. She almost felt like she was a kid again, going steady for the first time and holding hands to announce it to the world.  
  
Perhaps that was what had gotten into Grissom. He'd turned sixteen again.   
  
She could feel a smile creep up on her as they found a booth and waited for the food. Some of the cheerfulness died as memories assaulted them both. It was hard not to think of Warrick, even knowing he would live. It was hard not to think of James, aged fifteen, dying for the crime of being different.   
  
They had enough evidence to nail the bastards who had done it – it was just a matter of finding them.   
  
"How can they live like that?" she asked rhetorically.   
  
"They believe," Grissom replied simply, knowing very well who 'they' were.   
  
"They're wasting their lives on this…" she searched in vain for a good word, unable to think of anything with enough dread and sense of evil in it. "This delusion of superiority."  
  
He nodded, staring at something beyond her. "Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease / We are worse in peace;- / What then remains, but that we still should cry / For being born, or, being born, to die?"  
  
"Francis Bacon," she replied. He smiled briefly, but still seemed to have wandered off somewhere. She knew him well enough to just let him think, and just sat there with him in the silence. It didn't feel uncomfortable or intruding, it just was.   
  
"They were local boys," he suddenly said. "No evidence of a car other than Warrick's at the scene. They were local, within walking distance of the crime."   
  
"Or maybe they had a place to hang out locally."  
  
He fixed her with a sudden glance, eyes seeming to shine. "Of course. Sawdust and paint. A house that is under decay. The perfect hangout. I'll call Brass, see if we can get a list of places that need renovation in the area."   
  
He tossed a few bills on the table, getting up with a surge of excitement. "Come on."  
  
She gave the food a longing look, but followed him towards the door. Even without food, there was no place she'd rather be than by his side.  
  
And out there, those bastards were still free to kill again. She couldn't let them.   
  
'What then remains, but that we still should cry / For being born, or, being born, to die?' she thought as the sunlight blasted at her again and wondered if someone who believed in such hate could truly life.  
  
Or perhaps they died so slowly they thought they still lived and all the tears were cried not for their death – but for their life.   
  
******  
  
Warrick awoke to a soft presence leaning against his arm, smelling slightly of chemicals and perfume and something distinctively feminine. He revelled in the feeling for a while, afraid that it might vanish if he opened his eyes. A fleeting dream.   
  
Finally, the light begun to seep through his eyelids anyway, and he opened his eyes and blinked against the white onslaught.   
  
Catherine stirred as he moved, her head lifting from its position on the bed. He regretted the loss of her warmth, but cherished the sight of her clear eyes.  
  
"Hey," he said. She looked confused for a moment, brushing her tussled hair away from her face. Even tired, she looked wonderful.  
  
"How're you feeling?"  
  
"Like I've seen shot twice," he replied as dryly as he could. He could feel the dull pain of his body's healing process, but at the moment it felt distant and he was thankful for that.   
  
He lifted his gaze from Catherine to take in the rest of the room, quickly noticing the drawing pinned to the wall. It smiled at him with bright colours among all the white and he couldn't help but grin.  
  
"Lindsey made it," Catherine said, amusement in her voice. "You're chasing the bad guys."  
  
"With a broomstick?"  
  
She laughed heartily; the sound tickled against his skin like drops of water.  
  
"That's me."  
  
"Oh," he replied. "Wait, I see it now. It's like looking at a mirror image."  
  
"I look like a broomstick?"  
  
"A very nice one," he assured her, and she returned his smile. For a moment, they both just looked at each other in the much-too-bright light.   
  
"How's the investigation going?"  
  
"We've ID'd the victim." She stared into the air, the smile gone from her face. "Just a kid."  
  
"I remember. He was still alive when they shot me. He looked at me…"  
  
"Warrick…"  
  
"… and he knew he was going to die, Catherine. He knew."  
  
"And we'll find the ones that did this," she replied, the steel in her voice almost masking the sadness.   
  
The silence felt strangely tense and he found himself wondering why. Catherine was a friend, a friend he trusted with his life. The tension was new, but it felt familiar.   
  
Grissom and Sara. Of course. That's why it felt familiar. He had seen it enough between them, but why did he now….?  
  
He looked up at Catherine, and the intensity of her gaze nearly drowned all other sensations. His skin tingled as she lifted a hand to his cheek, placing a thumb against his lips.  
  
"Don't you ever do this to me again," she said forcefully. "Ever."  
  
He tried to tell her he hadn't really meant to get shot, but before he could open his mouth, her lips descended upon his.   
  
She kissed him forcefully, almost as if it was a punishment rather than a caress. The intensity of it was almost painful at first, his nerves so set on pain pleasure was unexpected.   
  
She tasted of coffee and Catheriness, something he could lose himself in forever.  
  
"Ahem." Nick's voice floated into the room, sounding amused. "I'd tell you two to get a room, but you already seem to have one."  
  
Catherine straightened up, fixing Nick with an indeterminable glance.  
  
"Hey, man."  
  
"Hey, Warrick. Catherine," Nick grinned. "Motivating our patient to heal, are we?"   
  
"You're just jealous he's getting the care and you're not," Catherine replied, her eyes glittering. "I'll see you later, Warrick."  
  
"Yeah." He stared after her as she walked away, turning at the doorway and giving him one last look. It was almost enough to make him forget he'd been shot twice and seen a kid die before his eyes.   
  
Almost.   
  



	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

The sun had sought cover behind clouds that drifted determinedly across the sky. It was a day that promised rain, but did not deliver, as if to say 'I could if I wanted, but I choose not to'. 

_I could if I wanted._

Grissom couldn't help but lift his eyes from the horizon to meet Sara's lovely eyes, so intent upon his face. 

_I could if I wanted. _

Sometimes he wanted to more than anything. Just to hold her, like the sun she was, basking in her warmth. Perhaps dare a caress, like the gentle touch of a cloud drifting by. But if he held her, he wouldn't let go. If he let her in, he could not close her out again. That choice could not be made easily. He thought about it sometimes when he looked at her like this, every now and then giving her the lifelines that kept a 'we' afloat. 

Little concessions, little lifelines. All bringing her closer, bit by bit, making the choice harder. For it wasn't just about him and her.

One day, he'd have to tell her about the hearing. 

"If you two are done with your gazing mating ritual, perhaps you might fill me in?"

Catherine's voice sounded amused, and he turned to see her lean against the hood of the Tahoe, arms crossed, but a hint of a smile on her face. He hadn't even heard her come.

"Catherine," he greeted her with.

"Don't 'Catherine' me. You have a lead and you didn't call me."

"That's right," he answered calmly, turning to Sara again. 

"Gil!"

"You shouldn't be here, Catherine," he warned.

"I am here. Now, are you going to tell me?"

He sighed, feeling a slight bemused look from Sara burn against his skin.

"We are looking for sawdust," he finally said. "Brass has…"

"Brass has indeed," the man himself said, walking out and looking pleased with himself. "There are three houses in the area you indicated that are undergoing renovations. One of them is in a neighbourhood that would certainly notice gangs about. The two others are more likely. Lancan street and Jenkins road. I got warrants."

"Are we heading out?" Nick asked, exiting his car. "I got your page, Grissom."

"Yes. You're with Brass at Lancan street, Sara and I will look at the other site. Look for sawdust and blue paint and get samples."

Catherine shot him an infuriated look, just as Sara muttered "I'll be in the car." Brass and Nick had already vanished, sensing storm clouds. 

"I'm a part of this investigation," Catherine said, strangely calm.

"You are too emotional."

"We are all emotional on this one, Grissom. We all want to know why."

"No," he said simply. 

"Damnit, Grissom, don't tell me why doesn't matter!" Her voice rose, and she seemed ready to stab him with her gaze.

"We know why, Catherine," he replied calmly. "You want to know the reason for the why and the reason for the reason. It won't give you any peace of mind. It just is."

She shook her head. "Wake up, Gil. Life is more than just being."

He didn't flinch, didn't answer, and merely stared at her. Her face softened slightly for a moment, as if she had realised she had given him a slap across the face.

"Go with Nick and Brass," he finally told her, and she accepted it with a nod. Anger still glimmered in her eyes, and he had a feeling the subject was not laid to rest. 

Sara looked at him as he entered the car, tenderly and darkly. She did look a bit tired and haggard, he suddenly noticed, and felt a bang of guilt. She ought to get some rest and food, yet he wanted her here. 

"45 Jenkins road," she said, holding out a map. "It was to become an apartment complex, but got closed down after the company that was renovating went bankrupt. Seems the owner had his hand firmly in the cookiejar."

"And only left the cookies with raisins," he replied, starting the car.

"You don't like raisins?"

He shook his head; she smiled.

"Evidence of childhood trauma involving a near-death situation?" she guessed. When he didn't reply, she seemed to take it as confirmation as the smile widened. "The puzzle of Gil Grissom – another piece added."

He still said nothing, and she returned her attention to the map. 

"It's fairly close to the scene of the crime," she said soberly, pain washing over her face for just a moment. "Walking distance."

He could almost seem them, the shadows in the dark, boots and blood on the road. A mob, killing without thinking. He had seen it before, he would see it again. 

"Must be it," Sara said tentatively as the car swung into Jenkins road and a half-finished driveway. The apartment complex looked more like the shell of a building than an actual building – torn plastic instead of windows, walls unpainted and even missing in some places.

It was quiet as they walked out, the homes around fairly quiet so early in the day. Cars sailed by, but even they seemed lazy. A rather unremarkable neighbourhood, at least on the surface. But beneath the skin, tattoos of swastikas could hide.

"Sawdust," he remarked as they walked into the shell, Sara's camera already flashing. He bent down to the floor, carefully setting his brief case down. For a few minutes they worked in silence, Grissom taking samples, Sara photographing. Boot prints were found, but no blue paint. 

"Maybe Nick and Catherine had better luck," Sara suggested, looking slightly down.

"The blue paint may not have come from the same place as the sawdust," he reminded her, looking around. "When it rains, the ground here would be muddy."

As if the sky heard him, he felt something cold land on his hand. A drop of water, then another. The promised rain was coming. 

They ran to the car, huddling together almost instinctively as the sky bombarded them with water. The ground became slippery fast, causing Sara to nearly fall against him. He felt a slight jolt of warmth as he steadied her, before finally getting into the sanctuary of the car.

"I want to get a mud sample after it clears," he muttered, brushing raindrops off his face. The rain seemed to almost thunder, as if once released it was destined to drown everything. 

"If you want to," she answered, rain gleaming in her hair.

"I want to," he said softly. She looked strangely at him, face rain streaked and tired. "You need rest."

"So do you," she snapped back, sounding annoyed. Perhaps she felt him overbearing, but he didn't care. She was Sara, she deserved not to have to carry the ills of the world.

"Rest in me."

"What?" She stared at him, eyes wide. He didn't repeat the remark, just reached out and let his skin touch hers.

_I could if I wanted._

_I want._

It rained on. 


	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight  
  
The rain was drumming against the car roof, against the windows, against the earth. Catherine watched it pound on, wondering if the rain looked so angry merely because she was.  
  
Nick and Brass were chatting as the latter manoeuvred the car through the light traffic and through the driving rain. Back to the lab with the samples they had collected, hopefully one step closer to finding the monsters.  
  
Monsters. She knew they were human, but somehow she refused to consider it. Humans would not gun down a young boy merely for skin colour. Humans would not shoot her Warrick.  
  
Her Warrick...  
  
She shuddered, as if she could feel the cold rain on her skin. She had come so close to losing him and she didn't even know what he was to her. Something beyond friendship, but never spoken of.  
  
"Brass, swing me by the hospital."  
  
The words surprised her as much as it did Nick and Brass, who exchanged curious glances, but the car changed direction and set of for the hospital. Either man said a word, or at least she didn't register if they did. She just stared ahead at the driving rain, trying to make sense of the whirlpool of feelings he had suddenly plunged into.  
  
They let her off and she uttered polite sounds as she jumped out. The rain greeted her with a cold hail and she was wet by the time she stumbled inside. The corridors seemed endless and she had to stop herself from running. But when she reached Warrick's room, she hesitated.  
  
What the hell was she doing? He was going to live; there was no need to panic. No need to feel cold with fear.  
  
But her heart seemed determined not to listen, thumping painfully in her heart as she took the last steps.  
  
He was sleeping, face even and relaxed. Cold seemed to melt away from her body as she looked at him, taking in his every life sign. He was alive. He had not died while she was away chasing the monsters. He wasn't Holly. He would live.  
  
Her hand went to his instinctively, feeling his warm skin brush against her own. For a moment she let her gaze linger on her hand in his, wondering why it felt so warm and necessary. When she finally lifted her gaze she met his eyes.  
  
"Catherine." He sounded surprised; after all it wasn't long since she had been by.  
  
"Warrick," she greeted back. "Did I wake you?"  
  
He smiled slightly. "You're better than the dream."  
  
"And I haven't even given you a lap dance," she joked back.  
  
"I live in hope."  
  
"We all do," she said quietly. He sensed her change of mood and slipped his hand comfortably around hers. She sank down on the chair, wishing she could sink into his embrace. It would be a while before he was strong enough and she felt the need almost like an itch.  
  
"Hey," he said warmly.  
  
"I can't lose you," she blurted out.  
  
"I'm not going anywhere."  
  
"You nearly died," she snapped back, unable to keep anger out of her voice. "I nearly lost you!"  
  
"You didn't. Catherine... Living leads to death eventually; we see it everyday at work."  
  
She wanted to snap back, to deny, but of course his words were the truth. She still wanted to scream at them, deny them and live in the illusion that life was forever.  
  
He said nothing more, as if he again sensed her feelings and knew words would not make it better. She looked down at his hand again and suddenly her mind seemed to go still. There was no confusion, no hesitation. She knew what she wanted, she had known for a long time. She had just ignored it.  
  
"I'm gonna be there with you, Warrick. All the way."  
  
Their eyes locked, she saw him take in the unspoken words and mirror them back. It didn't matter that it rained, she still felt as if a sun was shining at her and warming her all the way to her bones.  
  
"All the way," he agreed.  
  
*****  
  
He had touched her as if she was made of porcelain at first, fingers stroking the sides of her face so lightly it was merely a touch at all. A ghost of a touch. Gradually, he started stroking her cheek, her eyelids, her neck, her nose and her lips. Never once did he take his eyes of her face, his gaze so intense she had to close her eyes at first.  
  
Now and then he whispered her name, merely audible from the rain drumming on.  
  
"Sara..."  
  
She closed her eyes as his thumb brushed over her lips again; she could hear her own ragged breath only distantly. Her heart seemed to have gone still for a moment, waiting.  
  
When he finally kissed her, it wasn't the gentle touch she had expected. His kiss was forceful, demanding, for a moment nearly drowning her senses in the onslaught. Her hands fumbled as she took his glasses off, his hands busy stroking her hair.  
  
He kissed her so hungrily she was sure her lips would bruise, but his eagerness seemed to fill her up also. Her skin tingled almost painfully, or was it his skin? She wasn't quite sure where her skin ended and his began, as if he was possessing her. Perhaps he was.  
  
She could feel the window press against the back of her head, feeling cold and slightly damp. Maybe that was why she was shivering; surely it couldn't be something else?  
  
'Liar,' her heart whispered.  
  
She groaned as his hands slipped down to her breasts; she could feel the heat of his skin even through layers of fabric. She wondered if he could feel her heart pound wildly, for it seemed to echo all through her body. She wasn't sure if it was pain or pleasure, but it was raw need and want and she surrendered to it. She could do no other.  
  
He paused so suddenly she almost let out a whimper, but the frozen look on his face pushed away the haze in her mind.  
  
"Grissom?"  
  
Lifting her head, she followed his gaze to see that the rain had stopped and that they were not alone. Through the light fog five young boys were walking, boots trampling through the mud. They were not looking at the car, more intent upon each other. And she knew it was them, knew it was the ones who had nearly taken Warrick's life and killed a young boy. She just knew.  
  
They were so young themselves, children pretending to be adults. So young, so lost. But they lived and one of their victims did not.  
  
Only then did she realise she was alone in the car. 


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

One moment he had been kissing Sara, feeling nothing but alive. The next moment, he was out in the mud, feeling nothing but hate. 

He knew it was them, not just because the evidence pointed towards them, but because he knew. The very air around them seemed to be filled with the scent of death. Death in their wake. It was a feeling he was unaccustomed to. 

They sensed his approach, one tensing up and looking ready to bolt, the rest just looking at him calmly.

One of these boys had shot Warrick.

The hatred took his heart like a claw, painful and raw. The intensity of it surprised him, even as a part of him - the scientist - merely stood on the sideline and watched. It was as if he was watching himself even as he was himself. A strange feeling. 

The slam of a car door told him Sara was out too, but he didn't even look back to check. 

If these boys wanted death so much, he could give it to them.

But strangely, his hand never went for his gun. 

"What do you want?"

The boy who spoke looked to be the leader, slightly straighter in his pose, the air of command about him. 

"Nice boots," Grissom replied, his voice strangely calm even to him. It had no emotion, it just was clear as glass. "Did you wear those when you killed James Rodriquez and shot Warrick Brown?"

The boy said nothing. He merely looked at Grissom and barred his teeth, like the death grin of a skull.

"Maybe you even kicked with those boots so that you had to wash off the blood afterwards. Here's the thing about blood though – you can wash off what you see, but the blood is still there."

There might have been a twitch in the boy's face, but the grin stayed on.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," he said loudly. 

"You were the shooter too," Grissom went on. "You are a leader and not the kind to let one of them do something to top you. You left your lovely fingerprints all over that gun. Every action you took left one more piece of evidence I can nail you with."

"Think you know it all, do you?" the boy said calmly.  "Why did would I kill like that?"

"Because he was alive," Grissom said simply. The boy looked surprised. "He was alive and he was happy when you saw him, wasn't he? And you were unhappy and you hated yourself. You have always transferred that hatred onto anyone who is different from you. He was."

"No! You don't know *anything*! They're not human, they don't deserve life!" the boy screamed, reaching behind him and then pointing a black gun at Grissom with a hint of defiance. 

"Drop it!" Sara's clear voice rang from behind. 

"Girlfriend?" the boy snarled.

"Yes," Grissom replied calmly. "I would drop that gun, or she will shoot you. Are you ready to die as easily as you are to give death to others?"

The boy sneered, but a look of fear crossed his face and he seemed to shrink, becoming human. His hand trembled, but the gun stayed up.

"Drop it!" Sara called again. The boys shifted around their leader, looking more and more like young boys and less and less like death. They were human after all. The scientist in him had known; the hatred in him had not. A part of him still screamed for revenge and death returned, but it seemed to have moved out of him, now screaming from somewhere afar. 

Distantly, sirens could be heard. Sara had to have used the radio and he silently commended her for staying calm. 

"You drop it, or I'll kill him!" the boy called back to her, but now his arm was trembling wildly.

"Come on, let's just run," another boy whispered.

"No!"

The shot thundered against the sky just as the clouds opened again, and the rain fell glittering like tears.

******

Darkness came, ruled and started to fade. 

The night seemed quiet even with the noise and nightlife of Las Vegas going about its usual business with the same vigour as always, even as the sun was about to rise. Life was short and people lived it, greeting every dawn as if it was just one more morning come about like a thousand others to come.

An illusion.

A necessity.

"He was just seventeen," Sara said, her voice dark. The group had gathered in one of the labs of CSI, the shift almost over and everyone showing the signs of a long night coming to an end. 

"He was a killer," Catherine injected, her voice more compassionate than her words. She wanted to hate, Grissom could tell, but she couldn't.

"He was a kid," Nick muttered. "A kid killing a kid. The world sucks."

No one protested, and Grissom lifted his gaze from his hands to Sara. Her eyes were grieved and her shoulders slumped. He was glad she had not killed, but the image of the kid shooting himself would probably haunt them both. 

A part of him felt satisfied, happy to seen death have death returned. The hatred still lurked somewhere inside as well, but it felt muted. He wanted to sleep and wake up with only the scientist in his head. Hatred was heavy. No wonder the boy had been unhappy, carrying such a burden.

"I'm outta here," Nick said abruptly and got up. "See you guys."

"Me too," Catherine added. "I'm gonna take some personal leave soon, Gil. To help Warrick with whatever he might need."

"Of course," Grissom said quietly and watched her leave. She looked pained, but perhaps bringing Warrick back to a normal life would bring some life to herself as well. 

He felt Sara's eyes on him, questioning. He knew that she wondered, but he wasn't sure if he had the answers yet. He wasn't even sure what the questions were.

"Let's go home," he said, rising. She shook her head.

"We should talk."

"Yes," he agreed. "But not tonight. Tonight you're going to sleep in my bed and not have any nightmares about the dead that wake you up sweating."

She looked up sharply and he met her gaze. He wondered briefly if he should just let her go, let life be easy and pass all the days in the illusion that it was truly life.

But instead he held out his hand and she took it hesitantly.

"Let's go then," she said softly and smiled.

She leaned against him as they walked out into the fire of the sunrise, with the night dying all around them and the morning coming slowly to life.  

FINI


End file.
